...And fade back to his hair, some more. Gaeta's voice rings out: "Mr. President. President Baltar. Good morning, sir. Good morning, sir." Baltar groans and raises his head, and looks twice as shitty as ever. "Mr. President, the Union needs their answer," needles Gaeta as, behind Baltar, a hooker in the bedroom suite gets dressed. The doorway to Baltar's private chambers is hung with opulent swags; he's replaced Roslin's functional teacher furniture with very manly oak desks and tables; he's replaced the White Board with a portrait of himself. "The union," he groans. "If it's not the union, it's the Quorum. If it's not the Quorum, it's the people's council." We take him in, and learn that it is ONE YEAR LATER. And that's not a joke, or a dream, or anything other than the next step in a wonderful adventure. "We survived a nuclear holocaust, Mr. Gaeta. And the people complain about the weather." Gaeta's hair has gone gray; I bet that didn't take a year, working for this jackass. "Sir, it's hardly the weather," Gaeta starts, but Baltar waves him off: "Well, whatever it is." He leans back, looking snaky, looking angry, looking self-satisfied. Looking kind of blotto. He shares a cigarette with the hooker, who has nasty fake boobs and is somewhat more dressed. "How many Cylon attacks have there been since I took office?" he asks, raising his voice. "How many?" Gaeta looks at Baltar, at the woman, back to Baltar: "None, sir." "Precisely. So why do the people complain? Tell the union to get off their fat asses and do some fracking work for a change, or I'll start rounding up their leaders and holding them in detention. I doubt they'll like that very much." Gaeta's so grossed out. "I'll tell them, Mr. President," he says, and takes off. The prostitute takes a seat on a couch, with a blonde woman, to whom Baltar addresses a grunted "'Morning" before going looking for his pills. He thumbs open the bottle and snaps a couple back. Out the window, as crazy music plays, we see a settlement. A tent city, from here to the horizon.

Battlestar Galactica: Orbital Defense Patrol. 380 days since Colonization. There are several shots of her dead hangar, dead steerage, dead hallways. Adama walks through a ghostly hallway, stops under a flickering, buzzing light, now wearing a mustache. It's creepy, the ghost ship. He stares up, then down: his girl is dying.